


How Lassiter Stole Christmas

by sebviathan



Category: Psych
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff, Gus is singularly aware that they're all rhyming, M/M, casefic, everything is in a Seussian rhyme scheme, takes place in between s1 and s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: On the concrete lied Santa, or... a man wearing his drapes.(Looks like this holiday didn't have any escape.) But Lassiter wasn't quite deterred from the get-go—then he crossed the parking lot and spotted a blue Echo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! I've been working on this fic all month, but mostly in the past week, and I've technically been planning to write it all year. It's frankly ridiculous that Psych never had an actual episode like this, and just generally disappointing that there were only 3 Christmas episodes, so I delivered.
> 
> Personally, I'd imagine Shawn as the narrator.

'Twas a week before Christmas,  
and all through the station  
was decor spread about  
in holiday preparation.  
While crime still continued  
at this time of year, it  
couldn't hurt Santa Barbara  
to get into the spirit—  
The walls were littered with lights,  
desks with snowglobes and poppets.  
Tinsel and wreaths hung above  
even Chief Vick's office.  
Every cop and detective  
was prepared in excess—  
Well, all except one...  
...whose name you can guess.

Our head detective sat  
at his desk with his usual frown,  
and no inkling of feeling  
except how tight he was wound.  
'Twasn't caused by a case  
or a redundant report,  
but the suffocating air  
that he wanted cut short.

That is, of this season,  
this holiday—of _Christmas_.  
Lassiter longed for the end  
of this stupid 'festivity' business.  
He hated the snow and the cold,  
the smell of mint in the air,  
and the terrible mess made  
of pine needles everywhere.  
He hated the spirit, the cheer,  
the timed displays of compassion—  
the whole goddamn month was  
a senseless distraction.  
"His heart was too small,"  
his co-workers might say.  
Perhaps it was true, joke aside.  
Lassiter liked it that way.

Because most of all, lately,  
like all holidays made prone,  
he hated the reminder  
that he was all alone.

He told none of this, of course,  
to his junior detective,  
who assumed he was simply too  
serious to be festive.  
She thought it was a sad way  
to be, and expressed it,  
but,

"Arguing with him won't help,"  
as others attested.  
"It's just how he is, you know,  
from the make and the model.  
Be glad you weren't here for that  
Secret Santa debacle."

She didn't ask what that meant,  
or press her questioning further,  
but that was in part due to  
getting called in for a murder.

It was then that Lassiter  
stopped sulking and leapt  
from his desk, grabbed a coat,  
and out the station he went.  
No time for another word,  
his partner followed on beat,  
relieved as the door slammed shut  
on Lassiter's passenger seat.  
But she'd mistaken his jump  
for sudden holiday cheer—  
she knew by his words  
once the car was in gear.

"We never get enough  
violent crime in December...  
Like, would it _kill_ someone to  
get a little dismembered?"

"Yes, it literally would,"  
said Juliet, wide-eyed.

"Oh, you know what I mean,"  
Lassiter replied.  
"People usually just get robbed,  
or Christmas shoppers get cheated.  
Now, a good homicide case  
is exactly what we needed."

Uncomfortable, but silent,  
she stared on with concern.  
Strange thoughts about Lassiter  
took hold and started to burn:

Setting murder aside,  
Juliet felt in the moment  
that a bit of her holiday  
cheer had been stolen.

 

❄❄❄

 

They arrived on the scene  
where the man had been slain,  
a Christmas-themed setup  
called Santa Claus Lane.  
Or rather, outside it,  
away from the business,  
the styrofoam snow and  
the lights a bit in the distance.  
On the concrete lied Santa,  
or... a man wearing his drapes.  
(Looks like this holiday  
didn't have any escape.)  
But Lassiter wasn't quite  
deterred from the get-go—  
then he crossed the parking lot  
and spotted a blue Echo.

"Oh god," he muttered,  
now frozen in place.  
"Who invited HIM here?  
He is NOT on this case."

"Don't look at me!" said  
Juliet. "I had no chance—"

"We got here before  
you did, Lassie-pants."

Lassiter turned with all  
the contempt he could muster,  
and found himself facing  
the famed Spencer and Guster.  
Conveniently on time  
to ruin his night, he thought.

"Then again," Shawn continued,  
"really, when are we not?  
I mean, plenty of times,  
but that's not the point.  
We had no intention  
to show up at this joint—  
We were busy watching that  
Harry Potter marathon."

"Um, _I_ was watching," said Gus.  
"You complained the whole time, Shawn."

"Well, point is, Lassie, Jules,  
these weren't my Christmas plans.  
The spirits simply led me to  
solve the murder of this man,"  
Shawn finished, dramatically  
gesturing behind him.

Lassiter folded his arms.  
"You're saying you 'divined' this?  
You know what, nevermind,  
I don't care how you got here.  
Just stand back while _I_ work  
And act like you're not here."

"Why such a Scrooge?" Shawn asked.  
But Lassiter ignored him,  
hoping that Spencer  
might just leave out of boredom.

He and Gus followed to  
the body instead,  
who was a middle-aged man  
clad in red, white, and red.  
Dark skin, a fake beard—  
and when Lassiter turned him,  
they could all see a deep,  
bloody hole in his sternum.

"Probably been dead for  
at least twenty-four hours,"  
said Juliet as she  
examined and scoured.  
However, it seemed  
the search was in vain;  
the victim had no I.D.,  
and therefore no name.  
No papers at all,  
in fact, could be found.  
Not a thing in his pockets  
or even lying around.  
"Maybe the killer  
looted his body?"

"Looks like someone's  
been a little bit naughty."  
Shawn thought that was gold,  
but the others did not.  
He was saved just as  
Lassiter returned to the spot.

"Just talked to the owner,  
the guy wasn't one of theirs.  
And no security cameras point  
this side of the fair."  
He sighed, "O'Hara,  
got an I.D. on Saint Nick?"

"Nope," she sighed back. "Hey,  
Why don't we ask our psychic?"

All eyes were on him,  
looking smug as he paused.  
But then,

"Isn't it obvious?  
This is Santa F. Claus."  
Their faces dropped, but  
Shawn didn't falter.  
"Every clue on the scene  
proves he's not an imposter!"

"Right, well, while you two go  
investigate the North Pole,  
we'll at least figure out  
what weapon made that hole."

Smirking, Lassiter then  
pushed them back from the scene,  
leaving Shawn and Gus  
only slightly demeaned.

Gus muttered to Shawn,  
"You don't really believe..."

"Well, it's not off the table  
until Christmas Eve."

Ignoring that, Gus frowned  
and appeared very focused.  
So suddenly that Shawn thought  
it might be from hypnosis.  
But then Gus took a deep breath  
through his nose, with a squint,  
and said,

"The supersmeller's  
getting _intense_ peppermint."

"Yeah, we're right next to  
Santa Claus Lane," Shawn mentioned.

"No, it's definitely  
coming from _that_ direction."

That is, from the body,  
from the hole in his chest.

"So what you're saying, Gus...,"

"I'm positive, yes."

"I'M HAVING A VISION!"  
Shawn announced, interrupting  
the "investigation"  
Lassiter was conducting.  
"I know what the weapon was,  
I'm seeing the murder!  
Oh god, the horror! The waste!  
The worst kind of tear jerker-"  
Shawn flailed and fell, and  
grabbed his chest in faux-pain.  
"He never saw it coming,  
to be struck by a... cane?"

"Like an old man's cane?"  
asked Juliet, intrigued.

"No. This man was killed with...  
a candy cane, I believe."

How freaking ridiculous—  
Lassiter almost giggled.

"Not possible, Spencer,  
a candy cane's too brittle.  
Now, why don't you two  
stop wasting our time?  
Go back to watching movies  
and let us deal with _real_ crime."

Expectedly, none of that  
wiped Spencer's grin off his face,  
though he still took the cue  
and started out of the place.  
Lassiter watched him leave,  
knowing for sure he'd be back.

What he never really knew  
was how he felt about that.

 

❄❄❄

 

"What can I say, man,"  
Shawn shrugged, once in the car.  
"It was a pretty clean scene.  
I got nothing so far."

Forgetting all that,  
Gus had one thing on his mind:  
"Was it just me, or was  
everyone speaking in rhyme?"


	2. Chapter 2

The very next morning,  
the Psych duo was called  
against Lassiter’s will —  
who was, frankly, appalled.  
Shawn and Gus arrived,  
both smug, down at the lab,  
and found their detectives  
with a corpse on a slab.

“Hey, Jules, Lassie,” Shawn grinned.  
“Thought you didn’t need my help?”  
That comment alone seemed   
to hit below the belt.

Lassiter, however,  
in lieu of a retort,  
simply handed their psychic   
the coroner’s report.

There were minimal  
signs of a struggle, he read.  
Merely some scratches  
and a bruise on his head.  
Then the hole in his chest  
just as wide as an inch—  
and in it, was found  
traces of _peppermint_.

“HA!” Shawn yelled with glee.  
“‘Too brittle’ my ass!”  
He proceeded with Gus  
an a Charlie Brown-esque dance.

Juliet watched on  
with a frown, but amused.  
It was no secret, meanwhile,  
that her partner disapproved.

“If you two are finished  
rubbing this in my face,  
let’s forget it and move on  
to solving the damn case?”  
He resented this, he did,  
he was wound far too tightly.  
But _hell_ if Spencer didn’t  
have a knack for the unlikely.  
“Anyway, fingerprints  
and DNA told us squat.  
So if he’s a criminal,  
he’s never been caught.”

“We’ve checked missing persons  
and got nothing,” Juliet said.  
“I say, for now, we focus  
on motive instead.  
Now, a candy cane shiv  
implies premeditation.  
To sharpen it like that,  
that’s time and dedication.”

“Not to mention the  _ force _ ,”  
Lassiter added.  
“To drive candy through bone —  
“our killer was rabid.”

“Why such an obscure weapon?”  
Gus wondered aloud.

Now, that put Lassiter  
into an odd sort of frown.

“This is either someone  
very mentally ill, or  
We’ve got a holiday-hating  
serial killer.  
Well, it’s probably both,”  
he steadfastly decided.

Now his partner seemed worried.  
“Well, don’t look too excited.”

Shawn, oddly enough,  
found himself skeptical.  
“A serial killer?  
Lassie, be sensible.  
Just ‘cause you hate Christmas  
doesn’t mean everyone does.”

“Given that criteria,  
we should suspect _you_ ,” said Gus.

Lassiter fumed, but couldn’t  
admit he’d been beat.  
He told them: “Well, for now,  
 _we’re_ the ones with a lead.  
Unless you got one? With your...  
‘psychic ability?’”

Shawn said nothing, but it was  
no dent on his dignity.  
For when he and Gus stepped  
out of the station,   
they could go ahead with  
their own investigation.

“An inch isn’t exactly  
standard size,” Shawn explained.  
“So we simply go back   
to Santa Claus Lane,  
and find the closest place  
that sells them that thick.  
And _there_ , we will find out  
who killed ol’ Saint Nick.”

 

❄❄❄

 

Leave it to Gus to   
immediately know which  
stores have the so-called  
“holiday sticks.”  
That’s what the wrappers  
are labeled, at least,  
at ten inches long  
and only fifty cents each.  
__ These are all evidence,  
Shawn thought to himself  
as he promptly grabbed every  
single one off the shelf.

“Not cane-shaped,” he said,  
“but they fit the bill.  
One of these innocent  
candies was used to _kill_.”

In the meantime, Gus grabbed  
a few more Christmas treats.  
Might as well have a snack  
while they’re out on the streets.

They arrived at the counter  
with armfuls of candy,  
and Shawn read the nametag  
of their tired cashier—

“Brandy,  
Before you ring us up,  
we have a few questions.  
My name is Shawn Spencer  
and I’m a psychic detective—  
This is my partner,  
Mr. Black Christmas,  
and we’re investigating   
a murder most vicious.”

Her head perked up and  
the bell on her hat jingled.  
“A murder?” she asked. “You mean,  
the one out on that field?  
I saw police cars last night,  
and the EMTs...”

“Yes,” said Shawn, “and the victim  
was killed with one of _these_.”

He lifted up a stick  
so Brandy could see.

“So what exactly, like,  
are you expecting from me?”

“Do you recall anyone  
particularly strange  
purchasing these things   
in the past several days?  
Anyone suspicious,  
anything you could tell us?”

“Now that I think of it,  
There was this one fella.  
Paid with just pennies,  
don’t know where he found ‘em...  
I only remember  
because I had to count ‘em.  
God, if he was a killer...  
you know that I couldn’t—”

“Don’t worry,” said Shawn. “Can we  
see the security footage?”

 

❄❄❄

 

‘Twas December 18th  
and about fifteen ‘til  
noon where they found the  
purchase in question on film.  
He bought a small handful  
and Shawn easily noticed,  
judging by how he paid,  
this man was likely homeless.  
More importantly, he had  
a face Shawn recognized.

“This isn’t our killer,”  
he said. “This is our dead guy.”

Gus shook his head solemnly.  
“What a terrible fate.  
Homeless on Christmas, then  
killed by his own candy cane.  
...Hold on, did I rhyme just now?  
Shawn, tell me you heard that.”

“Nevermind that, Gus.  
We need to go have a chat—  
or try to, with anyone  
who might have known him.”  
We can’t just bring Lassie  
this footage to show him,  
or Jules either, we need   
something bigger to tell her...  
Hey, Brandy, where’s the  
nearest homeless shelter?”

 

❄❄❄

 

Unbeknownst to them,   
just a few blocks away  
were Lassiter and Jules  
back at Santa Claus Lane.  
The former wanted every  
single employee questioned,  
and didn’t hesitate   
to come off as aggressive.

 

“Did anyone suspicious  
come in on the 19th?

This guy was psychotic,  
someone HAD to have seen.

What, don’t you people  
check bags at the gate?

Goddamn, just give me all  
your security tapes.

Are you absolutely  _ sure  
_ no one witnessed this murder?

Alright, I’ll come back  
to question you further.”

 

The longer he went  
without anything solid,  
the more he suspected  
they may be in on it.  
His partner wrote him off   
as just paranoid,   
at which, naturally,   
he was very annoyed.

“We’ve had cases far more  
farfetched in the past,   
so what’s so unlikely   
about this one?” he asked.

“Well I don’t know,” Juliet said,  
“maybe ‘cause it’s Christmas?  
Lassiter scoffed at the   
notion, at which she grimaced.  
“You could at least try to be   
_subtle_ , or just keep it down   
about violence and death—  
you know, with children around.”

As though to prove her point,  
passing families would stare   
like he was ruining   
Christmas—but what should he care?  
So some kids were a little   
afraid of him, so what?  
Ultimately he was   
keeping them safe! _But_ ,

It probably didn’t help  
that he went and detained   
several employees   
off Santa Claus Lane.  
Parents scowled, and plenty   
of kids actually cried,   
but these were suspects   
who had no alibis!

“You’re arresting Santa Claus,  
just imagine how they feel,”   
urged Juliet. So he sneered,

“Please, it’s not like he’s  _ real _ .  
Oh come on, I knew   
by the time I was six.  
So I highly doubt that   
I’ll scar them with this.”

Juliet felt sorry  
for him in a way,   
but her urge to punch him   
hadn’t been this strong all day.

She thought it couldn’t get worse   
until he started to shout—  
God, if they weren’t police,   
they’d already be kicked out.

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Lassiter’s patience   
was already shrinking   
when he could suddenly hear  
Spencer’s voice, singing,

 

__ “Who killed Santa Claus,   
__ who killed Santa Claus,   
__ right by Santa Claus Lane?  
__ Lassie and Juliet   
_ are getting nowhere,   
_ __ and Gus is going insane!”

 

“I’m not going insane,”   
his friend interrupted.  
“I KNOW I’m hearing it.”

“Then your ears can’t be trusted!”

He came into view  
and began to walk over,   
Santa hat on his head and   
a bag over his shoulder.   
_Oh god,_ Lassiter thought,   
as Spencer came toward him.  
He tried to forget anger   
and to simply ignore him,  
but dammit, he was far too   
cheery for Lassiter’s tastes,   
and he’d freaking gone _shopping  
_ in the middle of a case!

Shawn continued to hum  
as he handed out gifts   
to Juliet and Buzz   
and even Chief Vick.  
Anyone he saw   
on a regular basis   
was getting a present,  
no matter how faceless.  
Granted, most of them were   
generically bought.   
He hadn’t had the time   
or money for too much thought—

Except for Juliet,   
whom he gave a cute sweater,   
and Lassiter, who —

“What are you  _ doing _ , Spencer?”

“Well, now that Santa’s dead,  
 _someone’s_ gotta pick up slack.”

“He was NOT the real Santa — ”

“Why not, ‘cause he’s black?”

“What? No, because — _ ugh _ .”  
Lassiter rubbed his face and   
told them: “I am not   
having this conversation.  
I don’t know about you, but   
I’m a little bit busy.”

“Really? I didn’t notice,”  
said Shawn, feeling witty.  
Then he reached into his bag   
(which up close was huge),   
and pulled out a green mug   
reading “ _World’s Worst Scrooge_.”

Shawn handed it over  
with a beaming grin,   
but Lassiter’s patience   
was wearing even more thin.

He stared at the mug  
and then glared at the psychic.  
While he was slightly amused,   
he _refused_ to like this,   
because he KNEW it was all   
some stupid little game!   
And if he fell for it,   
he’d have but himself to blame. 

Of course, Shawn’s goal had been,  
somewhat, to annoy him,   
but Christ, the guy looked like   
he wanted to destroy it.  
Before Lassiter could speak,   
he made his decision   
that now was the best time  
to have a fake vision,   
and promptly pretended   
to collapse on the floor.  
Hand to his head, he yelled, 

“Check locker seventy-four!”

As expected, Lassiter  
hauled him to his feet   
and set the mug down   
without missing a beat.

“What are you talking about?  
And do NOT say ‘spirits.’”

“A twenty-four hour gym!  
The one that’s nearest   
to the Santa Claus Lane.  
Lassie, I promise,” said Shawn,  
“whatever’s in that locker   
will get this moving along.”

Frustrated as he was  
about Spencer’s antics,   
any leads at this point made   
him reasonably frantic.  
So he forgot all about   
his previous stunts,   
and grabbed O’Hara so they   
could head down there at once.

 

❄❄❄

 

Shawn had found this place after   
his earlier hunches,   
but to have gone over it   
would have just been redundant.

He watched as Lassiter  
opened the locker   
and found an I.D. that   
belonged to—

“Kuzey Mazhar.”

“That’s our vic,” said Juliet,  
staring almost in awe.   
“We finally know who he is—  
that was amazing, Shawn!”

What was more, as the  
detectives checked in   
the rest of his things, they found   
...the likely murder weapon.  
Lassiter stared down at a   
handful of peppermint sticks,   
feeling like he’d been struck   
with a bag full of bricks.

Spencer was stealing this case,  
and he wanted to shatter.

“I guess that gets rid of the  
premeditation factor,”   
he muttered, feeling a   
strange ambivalence.  
“Well, someone go get a box—  
this is all evidence.”

 

❄❄❄

 

Now that they knew the   
name of the victim,   
Juliet simply had to   
look him up in the system.

...Except when she did,  
she found an empty file.  
Clearly this guy had been off   
the radar for a while.  
Evicted from his last known   
address ten years ago,   
no job, car, nor record—  
but that, they’d already known.

“So all he was,” said Shawn,  
“was some homeless dude   
with a weird name, a locker,   
and a Santa Claus suit.”

“You know, I looked up his name,”  
said Juliet. “It’s Turkish.”

“Just like — ” Gus cut in, “like the  
original Santa Claus myth.”

“Yeah! But it’s just interesting,  
I’m not saying he’s _real_.   
And we still have no clue   
why Kuzey was killed.”

All this time to think, and Shawn  
could say with sincerity   
that even these new clues   
gave him no clarity.  
No relevant flashbacks,   
no discernible motive,   
not even any leads   
left for him to notice.

He looked at the screen,   
then the clock, then checked his phone,   
and then he looked at the corner   
where Lassiter sat, alone.  
He sighed and figured,   
with nothing left to do,   
he’d simply call Jules   
if they found something new.

She agreed it was late,  
and bade them goodnight.

“Dude, Del Pueblo’s still open.”

Gus jumped up —  
“You know that’s right.”

 

❄❄❄

 

No statement they’d taken   
from the gym, or the shelter   
told them a thing about who   
would kill Kuzey Mazhar —  
or WHY, for that matter.   
He’d had nothing to rob,   
no family, no enemies,   
and he’d done nothing wrong.

Meanwhile, the suspects  
that Lassiter had detained   
proved to be duds and   
were let go all the same.

So now, Lassiter sat with  
the evidence at his desk,   
pouring over it all   
while everyone else left.  
Spencer had already   
made him feel defeated,   
so if he could only   
solve this before _he_ did....  
He needed to find _something_ ,   
if only out of spite—  
God, if he had to,   
he’d keep searching all night. 

Before Lassiter knew it,  
he’d been looking for hours—  
for inconsistencies   
in interviews to counter,   
for a killer or motive  
hidden in tedious lists,   
for obscure details,  
for _anything_ they’d missed.

Around midnight, Lassiter  
looked up on a whim;   
the station was empty,   
it seemed, all but for him.  
And he was here—why?   
For a case going awfully,   
on a holiday he _loathed_ —  
ugh, he needed some coffee.

But only once it was poured,  
perhaps due to exhaustion,   
did he notice he’d grabbed   
the mug Spencer had bought him.  
For a few moments he stared,   
and his chest burned hot,   
and then he scowled and dumped it   
in a poinsettia pot,   
and in the process of   
returning to his desk, he   
accidentally knocked   
an ornament off a tree.

Lassiter simply groaned  
and grabbed a broom to sweep up—  
but then, the shattered glass   
gave him an idea.

He didn’t often follow  
this sort of impulse,   
but he was alone,   
and his drive was so simple.  
So he lifted up a rug,   
swept the pieces under,   
and “accidentally”   
knocked off another.

With his search growing fruitless,  
what was he supposed to do?   
No one would notice some   
loosened staples or screws.

Call it sabotage, sure,  
but this was preferable   
to letting himself be   
the only one miserable.


	4. Chapter 4

He did it. He had something.   
Granted, it had taken   
some hours of sleep and   
AFTER he’d been awakened,   
but Lassiter felt proud   
of himself nonetheless.   
All the case files   
were laid out on his desk,   
and a picture of Kuzey   
in the full Santa suit   
was lined up with the Santa   
he’d brought in and interviewed.

“With the beards on,” he noticed,  
“they look extremely alike.   
O’Hara, what if our   
killer got the wrong guy?”

As glad as she was  
for this break in the case,   
she couldn’t help but see what   
was going on in this place—  
decorations were falling   
apart, if not gone outright.  
And Lassiter was the only   
one who’d stayed overnight.

So the first chance she got,  
knowing it was for the better,   
Juliet got out her phone   
and texted Shawn Spencer:

 

__ [ Here’s the good news: Lassiter   
_ found a new lead, which  _ __   
__ I think will solve this thing.   
__ Bad news: he’s gone full Grinch.  
_ Not sure if we’ll need you,  _ _   
_ __ but come if you can. - J ]

 

**[ You had me at ‘grinch.’  
** **Already on our way. ]**

 

❄❄❄

 

“Oh, goddammit, O’hara,   
what are THEY doing here?  
Tell me you didn’t call them.”

“Lassie, where’s your Christmas cheer?”

Immediately,  
Lassiter let out a groan.   
Now was NOT the time   
for Spencer’s mocking tone.

And Shawn could see this himself,  
once he saw him up close:   
The man looked exhausted,   
like a vampire, almost.   
His desk littered with papers,   
and Shawn felt bad for the guy.   
Mostly nervous about the   
somewhat crazed look in his eye...  
And with a quick look   
up and down the station,   
he could be fairly certain   
what Lassiter had done.

“Like it or not, Carlton,”  
Juliet started to say,   
“Shawn and Gus have been   
integral parts of this case.  
So yes, I called them,   
and now that they’re here, we   
should just go ahead   
and tell them your theory.”

Except, before Lassiter   
could even open his mouth,   
Shawn had glanced at the pictures   
and figured it out.  
Without thinking, he put a   
hand to his temple and yelled,

“Whoever killed Kuzey   
meant to kill someone else!”

“Yes, we already knew that,”  
said Lassiter, smugly—  
and a little aggressive.

“Well, aren’t you as cuddly  
as a cactus,” Shawn replied.“  
As charming as an eel.   
And once the killer realizes   
that dude’s not dead, he’ll—”

“He’ll go back and try again!”  
Gus interjected,   
voicing exactly   
what they all suspected.

But to Lassiter, this felt  
like just another   
case of those idiots   
stealing his thunder.  
Desperate to take control,   
his face turning red,   
Lassiter hurried   
to grab his coat and said,

“If the person our killer   
intended was this guy,   
then we need to go back   
and figure out _why_.”

 

❄❄❄

 

It was hard not to notice   
the looks they were getting. 

“I’m sure they just find Lassie’s  
demeanor upsetting,”   
Shawn said, watching the staff   
as they walked along.

Juliet smirked. “Well,  
you wouldn’t be wrong.”

The two of them earned a glare,  
but Lassiter had to stop   
once they spotted their guy   
past the Santa’s Workshop.  
That is, the one black Santa   
who worked in this place.

“Jesus Christ, you again?”  
he said, evidently on break. 

“Listen, detectives,   
I made it pretty clear — ”

“Don’t worry,” said Lassiter,  
“that’s not why we’re here.  
What we want to know   
is if you have any clue,   
Mr. Banks, why someone   
might want to kill _you_.”

“Kill  _ me _ ?” he repeated.  
“Like someone wants me dead?”

“Maybe. But they thought that man  
was you and killed him instead.  
So whatever you did   
to get someone so pissed,   
you better tell us, or else   
we can’t do jack shit.”

For a moment he just  
stared back at them wordlessly.

“Uh, I got beef with my mom?”  
he laughed nervously.

Then Shawn stepped forward  
and put two fingers to his head—

“It was something you did  
while _working_ ,” he said.  
“Kuzey Mazhar was killed   
in a crime of passion—  
the murder wasn’t even   
meant to happen!  
No, they only meant to   
confront you on your break,   
but they started a fight   
with the wrong guy by mistake.”

Banks looked back to Lassiter.  
“What’s up with this dude?”

“I’m a  _ psychic _ , Jack,” Shawn said.  
“So tell us who you screwed.   
...You know what I mean.”

“No one!” he insisted.  
“I wouldn’t do anything   
so close to Christmas.”

“Just  _ think _ , man,” Shawn pressed.  
“The night of the nineteenth.   
You upset someone bad,   
there had to be _ something _ — ”

“Wait,” he finally said.  
“I think I remember—  
there was this eight year-old girl   
with a really bad temper.  
Plenty of kids do,   
but this girl was white.  
Which is... pretty uncommon   
for the Black Santa line.  
Guess the other ones were full,   
and she was throwing a fit—  
 _except_ when it came time   
for her turn to sit,   
she was fine. Then the second   
she jumped _off_ of my lap,   
she ran screaming and crying   
all the way back to her dad.   
I get lots of bratty kids,   
so it wasn’t too out of place,   
but come to think of it,   
the dad had this _look_ on his face...”

An uncomfortable silence   
fell over the five of them   
as they collectively   
realized what that meant.

“That’s our guy,” said Lassiter.  
“Not much more to sleuth.   
But for right now—Banks,   
we need the full truth.  
Did you do anything...   
inappropriate?”

“No!” he said, horrified.  
“I wouldn’t fucking dream of it.”

“It’s the truth,” Shawn said at once.  
“I _promise_ , Lassie. And I’m sure   
the security camera   
tapes should confirm.”

They shared a look, and  
Lassiter nodded. 

“Alright, Banks,” he said slowly.  
“Know where we can watch it?”

 

❄❄❄

 

Half an hour before   
the murder on the nineteenth,  
the girl Banks mentioned    
showed up on the screen.  
Naughty in the line, but nice   
while talking to Santa.  
Then flailing about   
once again, right after.

“If he did nothing to her,  
what was the point?” Gus asked.  
“What could she possibly gain   
from lying about that?”

“It’s simple,” said Shawn.  
“And actually quite common.   
Children are demons   
who only want drama.”

They followed the father  
through the footage, trying   
to find something on him   
that was identifying,  
but the camera didn’t get   
very close to their faces.  
Lassiter, though, didn’t   
consider this lead wasted.

He didn’t want to like this,  
but found himself resigned   
to the idea as he   
turned around and sighed,

“Spencer, could you... ‘psychically’  
pick that man out of a crowd?”

Shawn nodded vigorously.

“Then get ready for a stakeout.”


	5. Chapter 5

This was not only   
for Banks’s protection,   
but so the moment Shawn   
saw him, they could arrest him.

It was odd, working  
this one alone together,   
after all the frustration   
he’d gotten from Spencer   
so far in this case.   
But he was their only shot—  
he had _some_ special... thing,   
psychic or not. ( _Not_.)

And there was no point in  
Juliet or Gus staying   
when it was mostly a matter   
of watching and waiting.  
Shawn had even told Gus,

“Go hang out with Jules this time,  
maybe _she’ll_ buy your story   
about us speaking in rhyme.”

So here he was, spending  
the evening with Lassie.  
And even aside from the case...   
hell, he was happy.  
He wasn’t stuck in a car   
like any other stakeout,   
but rather, at a festival   
where he could walk about,   
really just __hoping  
that he would spot the killer.  
Every once in a while,   
He thought someone looked familiar,   
and each time Lassiter   
told him not to approach,   
but he did anyway   
only to find it wasn’t that close.

After several hours, this  
started to feel like a waste—  
what were the chances, really,   
that he’d come back to this place?  
And how, exactly, would   
that father have realized   
that the person he meant   
to kill was still alive?

It seemed less and less likely  
the longer they stayed,   
but Lassiter and Shawn   
both figured— _just in case_.  
Especially since it was also   
Banks’s life on the line.  
They couldn’t just _assume  
_ that he would be fine.

It had been a while since  
Lassiter went undercover,   
so it felt odd to be   
wearing something other   
than his usual suit,   
or even his civvies   
(because apparently,   
those still screamed “police.”)  
They’d given him a sweater   
to put over his dress shirt—  
he looked “like a dad”   
according to Spencer.

And neither would say so,  
as the hints were just subtle,   
but they both noticed... they  
probably looked like a couple.

Particularly as Shawn  
left Lassiter’s spot and   
came back minutes later   
with two cups of hot chocolate.

“What, they don’t have coffee?”

“Lassie, it’s dark and it’s late!  
And I’m saving your cholesterol.   
You’ll thank me someday.”  
Not that hot chocolate   
was any more healthy,   
but,  
“‘Sides, this and cider   
were all they were selling.”

By then the lights were all up,  
and they were still waiting,   
and fake snow was blowing and   
Mariah Carey was playing.  
By all means, Lassiter   
actually looked relaxed.  
So Shawn thought it might be  
a good time to ask,

“Dude, why do you hate Christmas?”

Lassiter turned to him. “What?”

“Lassie,” he sighed, “don’t be  
an unroasted chestnut.  
Exactly _what_ is your beef   
with the holidays, man?   
You didn’t get the pony   
you wanted when you were ten?”

At once, Lassiter scowled  
and turned away again.

“...I don’t really  _ hate _ it,”  
he finally said.  
“I’m just bitter, like any   
single guy my age.”

“So what you’re saying is,  
you just need to get laid.”

“If that was a solution,”  
Lassiter almost laughed,  
“I’d be fine. But it’s more   
complicated than that.”

God, why was he telling  
Spencer any of this?  
But he’d already started,   
so he guessed he should finish.

“I got the truth about  
Santa pretty young, okay?  
And my dad was usually   
absent on Christmas Day,   
and in third grade when we   
were trading presents in class,   
I gave a card to a boy   
and everyone laughed—”

He abruptly stopped himself,  
painfully aware   
that he had said far too much,   
that he’d overshared.

But Shawn didn’t laugh at him,  
even as his face burned hot.  
Which left him to hear   
nothing but his own thoughts.  
God, he wanted to run,  
he wanted to be alone.  
And he almost walked off, but   
then a hand covered his own.

It didn’t look like it, but  
that move took Shawn some courage,   
and holding it made   
his heart wildly flourish.  
He didn’t say a word   
about what Lassiter said,   
but simply kept his hand there  
and his eyes ahead.

“Lassie, I don’t think  
this guy’s gonna show up,”   
Shawn muttered. 

Lassiter replied,  
“You think so, huh?”

“ _ But  _ I think I know  
how we can still find him...”

_ What, no ‘vision’? _ he thought, but  
decided not to remind him,   
because Spencer had barely   
done any of that tonight,   
and right now he was squeezing   
his hand a little too tight —

And then he was not.  
But once Shawn let go, he   
grinned back at Lassiter   
and said, “Come on, follow me.”

 

❄❄❄

 

One fun thing included   
at the Santa Claus Lane   
was a Christmas-themed   
photobooth, in which people paid   
to have physical copies   
mailed to their address.  
Which were filed digitally,   
so if they got access —

Of course, Lassiter only  
had to show his badge.  
...Then there were hundreds of   
pictures to look through and match.

“Tell me the truth, Spencer,”  
Lassiter said gravely.  
“Could we have done this hours ago?”

“Technically... maybe.”  
Shawn shrugged casually,   
ignoring Lassiter’s glare.  
“What, like you didn’t have fun   
with me today at the fair?”

He neglected to answer  
and let Spencer keep scrolling.

After what felt like an hour,  
he stopped and told him:

“This guy. I’m positive.”

He read the name.  _ Mark Stone _ .  
Then immediately   
pulled out his cellphone,  
and texted O’Hara   
the address, then sent her   
a picture of the picture,   
and finally turned and said,

“Spencer,  
after all you’ve done, you   
better let _me_ have the reveal.”

Shawn smirked, knowing Lassie  
deserved it, and said,

“Fair deal.”

 

❄❄❄

 

In another half-hour,   
give or take a few minutes,   
the four of them were outside   
the Stone residence.  
Shawn and Lassiter   
stood on the porch out front,  
Juliet and Gus out back   
in case he tried to run.

Lassiter knocked on the door,  
and in just a few moments,   
an eight year-old girl   
was holding it open.  
So _this_ was the kid   
who liked starting drama.

“Hey, Jessica,” said Shawn,  
“mind getting your father?”

“How did you know my name?”  
she gasped, eyes widened,   
but before Shawn had the chance   
to tell her he was psychic,   
the man of the hour   
showed up at the door.

“Mark Stone!” said Lassiter.  
“Just the guy we were looking for.”

“Looking for me? Why?”  
he asked, clearly nervous.

“Sir, you may not want  
your daughter to hear this—  
but I’ll say it anyway.  
You are under arrest for   
the murder of a homeless   
man named Kuzey Mazhar.”

“What — homeless? No!” Mark cried,  
but then simply took a knee.  
“Jessica, tell the cops   
_ exactly _ what you told me.”

But she looked between them,  
evident fear in her eyes.

“Mr. Stone,” said Lassiter,  
“we believe your daughter lied.   
And even if she hadn’t,   
that man’s alive, still.   
The man you _meant_ to confront   
is not the man you killed.”

“You just thought they were the same  
because they’re both black,”   
Shawn said. Then Lassiter shot   
him a look, and he stepped back.

“Okay, come on, I’m not a — ”  
he attempted to stall,   
but Lassiter promptly   
slammed him up against the wall.

Shawn could hear the  _ clink  
_ of handcuffs on his wrists.

Mark tried to bargain:   
“But it’s three days ‘till Christmas!  
And if I killed the wrong guy,   
it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“You can tell it to the judge,  
Stone,” Shawn said, “but not tonight.”

Lassiter hauled Stone out  
while Shawn grabbed the girl’s hand,   
using his other to text   
Gus that they’d arrested the man.

And dammit, he didn’t want  
Shawn to have the last word,   
but after a moment   
that mindset felt absurd.  
Yeah, they’d had a deal,   
but it was a clever call.  
He’d let him have this one.

It was Christmas, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

The case was officially   
closed — Mark was in a jail cell,   
and Jessica was headed  
to her mom’s house in Campbell.

Lassiter, meanwhile,  
was still working Christmas Eve.  
There was still a job to do,  
and he had nowhere else to be.

It was quiet for him,  
as his partner had taken  
most of her available  
days for vacation,  
and surely, he thought,  
the Psych duo was off  
celebrating their paycheck  
for the case they helped solve.

Alright, Spencer practically  
did it all by himself.  
He could admit, in his head,  
it was _them_ who had “helped.”  
But it didn’t matter now,  
it was in the past, he  
hadn’t even _seen_ Spencer  
since the case ended—

“LASSIE!”

He mentally spoke too soon.  
Instead of turning around,  
Lassiter kept walking  
and ignored the sound.

Which was exactly what  
Shawn expected him to do.

“Lassie!” he shouted again,  
“I have something for you!”

“It might be a holiday,  
but I’m _busy_ ,” he replied,  
not quite sure why he  
felt the need to lie.

Shawn continued to follow,  
then took root in one spot,  
and told him,

“I sensed you didn’t  
like the mug I bought,  
so I got you a different  
present. A _real_ present.”

Lassiter thought that sounded  
like he really meant it.  
So on another impulse,  
he turned and walked back,  
and he took the present  
and started to unwrap.

It was... a book. Titled,  
“ _Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant_.”  
He almost couldn’t believe  
what he held in his hands.  
Not that this particular  
book was hard to find,  
but that _Spencer_... would  
actually be this kind.

“Open the front cover,”  
the other man told him—  
so he did, and found a note  
where the cover was folded.

 

__ I’m sure you already own this,  
_ but you can never have enough.  
_ __ Consider it an apology.

_ P.S. Look up. _

 

_ Look up? _ Lassiter frowned, but   
nevertheless obeyed the note.  
All at once, he understood,  
for it was...

“Mistletoe?”

If this was a prank, Lassiter  
was going to hit him.  
But—once he looked down,  
Shawn leaned up and kissed him,  
pulling him down by the neck,  
the other hand on his face,  
and trying to remember to __breathe  
as their hearts both raced.  
And even Lassiter  
hardly cared that they  
were kissing in the middle  
of the goddamn hallway—

He’d caved immediately,  
wrapped an arm around Shawn,  
and his chest grew hotter  
the longer he held on.

They finally did pull apart,  
and Lassiter tried  
very hard to breathe even  
and soothe his butterflies.  
Shawn briefly tucked his head  
under Lassiter’s chin,  
felt how warm his chest was,  
and muttered, with a grin,

“Lassiter’s heart grew  
twenty sizes, that day.”

“You mean three sizes,” he said.

“Eh, I’ve heard it both ways.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lassiter would probably still be working the rest of the day and Christmas too, but Shawn would invite him to come watch Die Hard with him and Gus on Christmas night, and he'd accept. 
> 
> And they always have New Year's.
> 
> <3
> 
> ([Recommended listening](http://8tracks.com/captainlucifer/sleigh-bells-and-songs))


End file.
